aim · the app of the house

A budget for your hours.

Give every hour a job. aim does the bookkeeping.

Be first when the doors open The book behind it

168

hours in your week

~29

actually yours to aim

Most of us run out around the marriage.

A week has 168 hours. After sleep, work, and the upkeep of a life, most capable adults hold about twenty-nine discretionary hours — against which the marriage, the friendships, the exercise, and the parent two states over are all still waiting for an allocation.

That chronic overdraft is not a character flaw. It is a measurement problem — and most exhaustion is unreported overspend. aim ports the discipline of envelope budgeting — give every dollar a job — to the hours you actually have.

Your day, drafted

Wake to a proposed day — never a verdict.

Each morning your day arrives already sketched from your own routines, goals, and calendar. Keep, move, or set aside — only what you choose lands. The draft is a starting point, never a judgment.

Every thought, safe

Three seconds to toss one in. The right ones come back.

Everything on your mind goes into one pool — by thumb, by voice, or pulled from Apple Reminders in one tap. No badges, no overdue, no red. When a day has room, the right ones volunteer; nothing nags, and nothing is ever lost.

One tap fills the week

Your routines compile into a proposed week.

The routines you've established — with their usual days and times — compile into a proposed week in one tap. Switch off what doesn't fit. The week is yours; the typing isn't.

A tree that only grows

Absence is rest, not failure.

Every kept hour feeds a living tree — your areas of life as branches, your goals as fruit. It never shrinks. A quiet week bares a branch; it never breaks one. The app assumes you're a capable adult having a human week.

Both currencies, one place

Envelope budgets for hours and dollars.

The same envelope discipline for your two scarce currencies: give every dollar a job, give every hour a job, and read one honest statement a week that covers them both.

Say it. It's done.

“Move my run to six.” Done.

The assistant works the same controls you do — it can log, move, file, and plan, but only ever with your words. Nothing happens that you didn't say.

Paper, when you want it

Print any day, week, or routine.

Any slice of the practice — a day, a week, a routine with its checklist — becomes a clean printed sheet or a PDF in the share sheet. For the fridge door, the desk, or the person you plan with.

It never nags

A few quiet notes a week, at most.

Notifications are capped by design — a handful a week, only when a minute of writing would make the statement read truer. The hours went somewhere whether anyone wrote them down or not; aim just asks gently.

No streaks. No red. Nothing required.

No streaks that punish a sick day. No red badges. No overdue lists. No shame mechanics of any kind. Not a to-do list that grows until you avoid it — a calm weekly practice that assumes you are a capable adult having a human week.

25′

once a week, with yourself

A budget without a recurring meeting is a wish.

Once a week, aim sets the table: the honest statement of where the hours and dollars actually went, beside where you meant them to go. Twenty-five minutes reads it and writes the next week. Over-commitment gets restructured, not escaped.

The doors open soon.

aim is in its final approach to the App Store. One address, and you're first through — nothing else, and not much of it.

Grew a tree already? aim grows the one you actually live.